


L'amour des deux lapins: Ce n'est pas un caneton

by Polly_Lynn



Series: The Bunny Verse [5]
Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Family, Gen, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:43:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's not a little annoyed. He's <em>mad</em> and she doesn't know why and everything is weird. The rabbits are unhappy and she's not exactly sure what to do with their houseguest."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This began as an 11th hour birthday gift for a friend. It sat as a one-shot for a long time. I tried really hard not to write this.

  


* * *

He's mad.

Like really, genuinely _mad_.

It's not that he doesn't get mad. He does. It shocked her. That first real fight they had after they were finally together, and he was _mad_ at her in a totally not-life-and-death way. It scared the hell out of her.

And it was a huge relief, too. That he _could_ get mad. That he would. That they could be . . . not-so-careful with each other some times. That they could yell or give each other the silent treatment and still come back together. Crashing or crawling or falling into bed. All three at once, sometimes. Exhausting most of the time. But a relief. That they could both get mad and have it not be the end of the world.

She knows he gets mad. She even expected him to be a little . . . annoyed with her. She did kind of do an end run around him. Alexis did, really. She just . . . assisted.

But he's not a little annoyed. He's _mad,_ and she doesn't know why, and everything is weird. The rabbits are unhappy, and she's not exactly sure what to do with their houseguest.

Batman seems to have some ideas. She's pressed up to the front of the hutch, and when she's not chattering angrily at Kate, she's turning her head from side to side and eyeing up the saucepan in a way that suggests she has some definite ideas regarding what to do with their houseguest.

Ferrous is thumping around behind her. He's splitting his time between trying to cuddle Batman out of her foul mood and shoving his nose through the mesh every time there is any kind of action in the vicinity of the saucepan.

There's a _lot_ of action in the vicinity of the saucepan. Frantic flapping for no obvious reason that sends water sloshing over the side, followed by long stretches of contented silence broken by soft, irregular sounds. _Peep_ _peep peep_.

Ferrous loves the _peep peep peep._ He does a lumbering little dance every time until Batman glares him into stillness. He looks unhappy then. He buries his nose under his front paws like he's ashamed, but forgets by the next string of peeps and it starts all over again.

Batman gets more furious by the minute. She should be out and about now, not locked away. This isn't the schedule, and Kate's pretty sure she's not eyeing up the saucepan in a friendly way. She's pretty sure Batman has her suspicions about who's to blame for this.

Castle is shut away in the office. Like, door-actually-firmly-closed shut away. That's not the schedule, either, and it's kind of pointless. She can see him through the shelves, and she knows he's not really working, whatever he said.

He's mad, and _fine_ , she should have talked to him. She shouldn't have told Alexis it was ok, and she should have realized that Alexis had _already_ talked to him. That she knew full well it wasn't ok.

Except she did realize that. Not for sure or anything. Not _exactly,_ but Alexis is an even more hopeless liar than her father, and Kate knew something was up.

She knows he's being weird about this. She's more than a little tired of it. It's upsetting Alexis and it's not like him.

He's a total pushover when it comes to his kid, and this obviously means a lot to her. But he's not being a pushover about this. He's being _weird,_ and Alexis is being quiet, and Martha trails around intoning cryptic things about mortality, and it's like everyone expects Kate to fix it. So she tried, and he's mad, and she's kind of trapped in her own living room.

Not for long, though.

Batman's not going to stand for being locked up much longer, and Ferrous has gone sad and still. He still pokes his nose through at the faint splashes and the _peep peep peep,_ but Batman's fury is too much for him to keep up his dance.

They shouldn't _have_ to stand for being locked up. They should be out and he should be sitting on the floor in front of the couch, giving her long-suffering looks as they clamber up and down his bent knees. He should be calling out every time her head is turned to tell her that she just missed the most diabolical thing that Batman did. He should be narrating Ferrous's ridiculously eloquent internal monologue.

He should be _here_.

There's a particularly violent splash from the saucepan just then. A particularly frantic flurry of wings and the _peep peep peep_ turns agitated. Batman draws herself up and slaps hard at the mesh. It rings out and Ferrous . . . kind of howls. He lets out this noise that deeper than Batman's chatter and not at all the contented rumble he usually makes. It cuts off in an instant, though, and he hides his nose again, ashamed.

Kate's had enough. They all seem to have had enough.

She unfurls herself from a tight knot on the couch. She bends over the coffee table carefully lifts the saucepan.

Batman is furious. She slaps the mesh again and it rings out. Ferrous joins in, hurling his immense side against it hard enough to make the whole door jump.

"Hey." Kate snaps her fingers.

Batman's head jerks up. She glares, but sits back on her haunches. She waits.

"Two minutes," Kate says. "Two minutes and I'll let you out."

The two rabbits look at each other as if they're deciding whether or not she can have them. Kate doesn't stick around to find out. If she comes back to find the hutch demolished and the loft in flames, it's on his head.

She marches to the office door with the saucepan curled to her chest. He hears her. She knows he does, but he's studiously ignoring her when she twists the handle and barges in. He's banging away like she doesn't know what fake typing looks like, and something about it just pegs her meter.

She stalks to the desk and sets the saucepan down. She shoves it across the surface and almost laughs at the way he jerks back with a not-quite-stifled shriek. _Almost_ laughs.

"I'm sorry," she blurts.

It's grudging and sharp and not at all what she planned on saying.

From the way he's blinking up at her, it's not what he expected to hear.

"I don't know what's going on with you." She sighs and scrubs the back of her hand across her forehead. "I don't know why you're being weird about this, but I shouldn't have gotten in the middle. I should have asked and I'm sorry."

"You should've asked," he says. "But Alexis shouldn't have asked you. _She_ put you in the middle."

"I don't . . ."

She doesn't know what to say. She lets her head drop back and stares at the ceiling. There's a tiny splash and an incongruously cheerful string of _peep peep peep_.

Her chin drops to her chest and she catches him staring. He's . . . disgusted. He hates the thing and it's so _weird,_ and she has no idea what's going on.

"Castle. I'm sorry. I should have asked, but I didn't, and he's here now."

She comes around the side of the desk and he reaches for her. He wraps an arm all the way around her hips and presses his face into her thigh. He's upset. Genuinely upset and she doesn't even know what kind of mess this is.

She slides her palm along his shoulders and around his neck. She bends over in an awkward embrace. He takes one long breath and pulls her into his lap. He turns his head to burrow into the hollow of her shoulder.

"He's here now," she says, "and the rabbits are upset at being locked up too long and I think Batman wants to eat him."

"No, Ferrous wants to eat him." He mumbles gloomily against her neck. "Batman just wants to taste his blood."

She laughs into his hair. They sit a while, and she wants to stay. She wants to rest against him and feel the weight of it. Him being mad at her and that being ok. She wants to stay, but it's been more than two minutes and she should probably be worried that it's quiet.

She pulls back to look at him. "Can I just leave him here while I let them out?"

He looks toward the saucepan. The little duck is paddling around happily, peering curiously over the side. Their eyes meet briefly and Castle looks away, more misery than disgust now.

"He's my responsibility and I'm sorry." She kisses his forehead. "But can I just leave him while I let the rabbits out? He mostly just splashes around."

"And makes that horrible noise." Castle unwinds himself from her. He stands, dumping her a little unceremoniously one minute and catching her around the waist the next. He grabs her hips and steps behind behind her, keeping her body between him and the saucepan. "You can't leave me alone with him."

"Castle." She gives an exaggerated gasp. "Are you afraid of your own grand-duckling?"

He stops. He's halfway to the door, but he stops and turns to face her. "Don't call it that."

He's . . . not mad exactly. He's weird. He's being weird again, and they're going to have to have to have whatever this is out eventually.

But he's not mad, exactly, and they don't have to have it out now.

"Fine," she says. She slides the saucepan carefully off the table and brushes by him on her way through the door. "But remember this moment when you're paying for Chuck's therapy."

"Chuck?" He calls after her. He's appalled, but it beats mad or weird. "She named him _Chuck?"_

"Chuck," she says over her shoulder. "Chuck the duck."

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's not a little annoyed. He's _mad_ and she doesn't know why and everything is weird. The rabbits are unhappy and she's not exactly sure what to do with their houseguest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no duckling.

They've been up all night.

Practically all night. With a chorus of _peep peep peep_ at intervals irregular enough to make her believe every single time that the madness might end. With Ferrous rattling the hutch and the windows and the whole damned loft with his happy dance and Batman tearing around like she doesn't know _what_ to do with herself, they've been up all night.

The four of them have. Not him, of course. Not Castle. Despite the fact that Batman's subsonic—possibly imaginary—sneezes have been waking him since the night he brought them home. Despite the fact that he sometimes gets up to turn Ferrous on his other side when the big rabbit snores, because he worries about sleep apnea. Castle worries. Ferrous isn't built for worry.

But last night? Last night, Castle was suddenly, _mysteriously,_ dead to the world.

"I'm kind of done with him," she tells Batman.

The little rabbit tears her attention away from the far end of the table. She looks up from the depths of her coffee cup with a decidedly skeptical tilt to her head.

"I _am_ ," Kate insists. "Done with whatever _this_ is, anyway."

She strokes the tip of one silky black ear where it hangs over the thick rim of the cup and tells herself she _is._ She's definitely done with whatever this is.

Because they made up. She apologized and he did, too. Admitted that whatever's going on is really between him and Alexis. They got all that out in the open, and it was fine. They'd spent a quiet evening keeping track of their little menagerie and he grumbled, but it was _fine_.

It was supposed to be fine, but it wasn't really. Because he tried. He made the effort, but grumbling turned into genuine bristling whenever Chuck did _anything_. And _that_ turned into him getting snippy with her when she told him to ease up. He made an effort, but in the end, he shut down all over again and stormed off to bed early. And _slept_.

She's _done_ with that.

"I mean, what is his deal _?_ Ferrous loves him. Even _you_ like him." She taps the little black nose and gets a glare for her trouble. "Now, anyway. Mostly."

She scratches the rabbit's chin in penance. Batman looks away with an affronted chirp. Batman likes to keep the list of creatures she "likes" pretty exclusive. But it's true. She wasn't sure at first. Locked up in the hutch _well_ past the designated rabbits-running-around time—and _that's_ his fault, too—Batman wasn't sure about the duckling _at all_. But she seems to have made her peace over night.

She seems to like him well enough this morning that she almost never looks like she wants to eat him. She likes him well enough to watch while Ferrous hops around perimeter of the saucepan, making the whole table jump and the water slosh crazily. She's given up chattering with every happy splash, and she hasn't lunged at Chuck in a while, even when he awkwardly nips at Ferrous's ears with a firm _pok pok pok_ of his beak.

Ferrous loves it. Ferrous loves everything and everyone, but he has a new smile just for Chuck. Batman doesn't _get_ it, but she likes the duckling well enough to let Ferrous out of thumping distance, and that's saying something.

"Everybody likes everybody. Everybody's _fine_ ," Kate murmurs. "So what's his deal?"

Batman doesn't look at her this time. She doesn't have any answers, and Kate would really like to know. A part of her would really like someone to tell her what this is, even if the rest of her is _done._

Most of her is done. Because how could she have known? This isn't him. The way he's just shut down about this—completely shut down—it's . . . unprecedented. There's no way she could have seen the silence coming.

Because five years of life constantly narrated by Richard Castle—five years of talking every aspect of her life and his life and crime and her wardrobe and police procedure and superheroes and conspiracy theories and pandas and irony and _every last damned thing to death_ —have left her completely unprepared for this. For him _not_ talking. For him being _weird_.

"He won't just say," she mutters, again.

She takes a sip of her coffee and misses him, even though she's mad. Even though she's been up all night and she's _done_ with him.

Another sip and it hits her. It's his. The coffee. It's not hers. It's the right kind. Hers is the wrong kind, any more, because it leaves her hollow behind the eyes when she has to make it herself. This is his. It was waiting when she dragged to the machine and went through the motions of putting together her first cup without thinking.

But it's only _kind_ of the right kind. Because he's not the one who handed it to her. He's not up now. But he was.

"He got out of bed."

She sounds alarmed. Plaintive. Pathetic. She must sound pathetic. Ferrous perks up his ears and sits back on his haunches. He looks from side to side, torn between the simple joy of Chuck splashing around and the fact that he can't stand for anyone to be unhappy.

Even Batman gives her cup a furious thump this time, hard enough to rock the heavy ceramic from side to side. Kate grabs the handle to steady it. She's rewarded with a tiny black head shoved forcefully into her other palm.

It satisfies Ferrous. That Batman is on the job with her prickly, slightly violent brand of comfort. His nose swings back around to bump the duckling's beak. Chuck flaps his wings and splashes.

"He got out of bed," she says again. It's definitely pathetic. Miserable.

Because it's weird. Him getting out of bed to set up coffee. It's . . . _emphatic._ That's not how they do it. Not on weekends. On weekends, she wakes him. Makes a show of whipping the covers away and listing her demands. Or she lets the rabbits wake him. She lets them climb all over him or thump his sides. But she wakes him.

He wakes her, every once in a while, too. If he's been up all night. If, by some miracle, she sleeps in. He wakes her with coffee on a tray in bed. Or he wheedles until she wraps herself up in something oversized and warm. Until she drags out to the kitchen and perches at the breakfast bar to keep him company while he makes coffee for both of them.

It's emphatic. _Mean_ , she thinks _._ Her eyes slip closed as she drags her nails through the softness of the rabbit's fur. She takes another sip.

"Maybe I'm not being fair." She strokes her fingers along the elegant curve of Batman's side. The little rabbit harrumphs.

"You're not being fair, either," Kate chides with a tap between the bright, wide-set eyes. "You like things to be his fault, but they're not always."

They're not. This isn't. At least not entirely. The part of her brain that caffeine is keeping afloat realizes that, and even Batman tucks her head low in sheepish agreement.

He's being weird and he won't talk and he's _complicating_ whatever this is, but it's a situation of her own making. Tiny, still-functioning parts of her brain can see that, too. It's annoying, but it's true.

She shouldn't have forced the issue quite like this. _Fine_. She shouldn't have forced the issue. Part of her sees that. She shouldn't have ignored the warning signs and let Martha and Alexis pull her into the middle of whatever it is.

"How 'bout we blame them? They played us, didn't they?" She tips the rabbit's chin up, looking for an answer, but Batman isn't listening. Batman is drumming her front paws on the rim of the coffee cup and chattering at Ferrous.

Chattering at where Ferrous _should_ be. Because there's nothing but an empty saucepan where Ferrous should be. No duckling, either. S _hit._

Kate pushes herself up. She remembers Batman, almost as an afterthought, and a good thing, too. The little rabbit has tipped herself free of the mug and she's on the move.

Kate sweeps her up, landing a reflexive tap between the black ears. Batman clacks her teeth once and gathers herself into a small, watchful ball in the flat of Kate's palm.

The two of them stagger to the last known location of the big rabbit and his new partner in crime. Kate's limbs are stiff and clumsy with exhaustion. She's _so_ done with this.

"Ferrous!" She peers into the saucepan. The water is still sloshing back and forth. They haven't been gone long at least. "Chuck!"

She drops to the floor and army crawls toward the armchair even though she knows he's not there. There's no giant brown rump sticking out into daylight, so they're not in Ferrous's favorite hiding spot.

"This is _his_ fault," she mutters. Batman adds her angry chatter of agreement and makes a bid for freedom. Kate loses her. She's dull and slow and Batman is off in a furious streak. "Shit!"

She scrambles to hands and knees and tries to make her brain work. Tries to figure out where Ferrous would go, but she doesn't know. He's not in the best hiding place ever, and with the duckling in the mix, she just doesn't _know_.

She staggers to her feet. There's a clatter and a dangerous-sounding twang from . . . somewhere. The office, she thinks at first, but that's not right. It's the kitchen. Close to the kitchen and now things are sliding. Metal rolling on metal and another twang.

 _The bridge_.

Ferrous loves that ridiculous model bridge. Batman does, too. They should _never_ have let her watch _Godzilla_.

Kate turns and it seems Chuck's a fan of the bridge, too. The duckling flaps from atop one of the support pillars. Ferrous's huge head rises up from below, his ears swiveling up and around in pure joy as he gnaws at the tension cables. It's a relief—almost a relief—when black paws peep over the far edge and Batman leaps into view and thumps to bridge's exact center to supervise the destruction.

Kate has no idea _what_ the little rabbit might have scaled to get herself up on the console table. She has no idea how Ferrous hasn't killed himself or Chuck with a wildly twanging cable. And she really doesn't know how Alexis failed to mention that apparently the world's least coordinated duckling can _fly_.

She marches to the console table. She goes for Ferrous first. He freezes, jaws apart in the act of liberating yet another cable. She scoops him into her arms. He snuggles hard against her neck like snuggling is the best thing. Better than architectural destruction, any day.

"Batman!" Her voice is sharp. It's not enough to make the little rabbit stop, as she hops back and forth, but she misses a step. She stumbles and slides across the bridge's slick surface.

Kate palms the tiny body and shoves her close to Ferrous. It's dirty pool, but the big rabbit pins her in his excitement.

"You!" Kate stoops to get in the duckling's face. "You, _wait_."

Chuck _pok pok_ s his beak. He puffs up his chest and spreads his wings in an indignant flap. But he stays put.

She covers the distance to the hutch in two long strides. She has both rabbits inside before Batman can even chatter. Before Ferrous can even blink up at her in adoring confusion.

"No." She wags her finger at hutch's mesh front. "No sad faces or mad faces. And no slapping. I am _done._ "

The rabbits look from her to one another. Batman sullenly hops further into the shadows. Ferrous follows, not even a moment after, and they settle.

"Good," Kate mutters. She fixes the two of them with a long look then turns back to the bridge. To the duckling. He's hopped or flapped or teleported down to the surface of the bridge. He's happily worrying the loose end of a cable, waddling along with it in his beak.

"Done," she says again as she closes her palms loosely around the awkward little body and lifts him into her arms. " _So_ , done."

Chuck peeps contentedly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's not a little annoyed. He's _mad_ and she doesn't know why and everything is weird. The rabbits are unhappy and she's not exactly sure what to do with their houseguest."

He assumes he's dreaming.

There's a soft, warm weight on his chest, and that might be real enough.

She likes to wake him with rabbits.

When he sleeps in long enough to really bother her—when she's whiled away as much of the morning as she can, and she feels like the weekend is getting away from them—she steals in with one under each arm and lets them loose on her side of the bed. Nudges them to his side if he's slow to wake.

He loves it, really. He loves the gentle insistence of the mattress as it dips and rises with their thumping around. He even loves the way chill air sweeps over more and more of his bare skin, because Batman commandeers the blankets bit by bit. He loves finally waking, opening his eyes for good and knowing that the three of them are plotting against him.

When it's serious—when it's late enough to trigger her smug, morning-person outrage—she sets Ferrous on his chest. He loves that a little less. His eyes pop open all at once on those days, and his ribs feel like they'll crack under the weight of rabbit and cheerfulness combined. He gasps for breath until the big rabbit scrabbles up to his shoulder. Until long ears flop over his chin and he's up close and personal with Ferrous's morning smile. Those days, he sputters and struggles on to his side. He hugs Ferrous to his chest, weathers a flurry of whiskers tickling his chin, and there she is. Eyes wide and innocent. There they both are. Batman and Kate. Kate and Batman. Waiting.

She likes to wake him with rabbits. He loves when she does. But this isn't right. He must be dreaming.

He can breathe, so it's not Ferrous.

He's not bleeding, so it's not Batman.

The weight shifts on his chest again and again. A strange, waddling from side to side. It's not a rabbit at all. There's an odd, soft sound that goes with the movement, and his brain can't make sense of it. He's _so_ tired. She was up and down all night and he . . . wasn't. Mostly. He stayed stubbornly in bed. Mostly. But he didn't sleep well. He hasn't been, and he's _so_ tired.

His right hand flops out toward her side of the bed. It's empty. It's cold and the covers lay flat like she's up for good and he's probably in trouble. He's probably in a lot of trouble. Because she's not bothering him.

He's not-quite-alone and out of it. That means it's _definitely_ not a rabbit. Unattended rabbit plus sleeping human? She _knows_ that's not safe.

It's not a rabbit unless she's actively trying to kill him. _She might be_. Some part of his exhausted brain offers that up. She _might_ be trying to kill him.

He struggles up from unconsciousness. He forces his eyes open and the world stops. Everything freezes in some terrible mockery of bullet time.

He clamps his eyes shut again. He wills the image away, but it won't budge. It's etched inside his eyelids. It flips out and unfolds. Replicates a dozen times and a dozen more.

His eyes are shut tight and still he sees it. Two beady eyes an inch from his. A creepy, pale peach slope ending in a flat scoop turned upside down.

It's terrible.

_That is_ not _a duckling._ He says it over and over. Inside his head. Whispers it.

But the not!duckling hasn't gotten the memo.

A persistent weight shifts on his chest again. Again. And then again. That uneven, unsettling waddle.

_Waddle._ It's terrible.

His eyes fly open and that's worse. The beady eyes are gone. The creepy beak with its menacing little nostrils at the top have been replaced by the fuzzy yellow vee of its butt tilting up and down and up and down as it makes its way down his body.

Down his _body_ and he's _naked_ under that sheet and _OH GOD._

" _KATE!"_

His mouth opens and it's not really her name at first. It's not really anything but a roar. Not even a roar, really, because it's strangled. The pitch climbs and climbs. It's not exactly commanding, but it turns _into_ a roar. Because he's _way_ bigger than this thing, and it doesn't matter how creepy it is. How much he hates it. He's _bigger_. So he roars and then it's her name and that dies away and there's _nothing._

Not a sound from anywhere else in the loft, and he can't believe she'd do this. He can't believe she'd put that _thing_ in bed with him. However much trouble he's in. He can't believe she'd put it in _their_ bed, where he is _naked_ and they are often naked together and she wakes him with rabbits. He can't believe she'd leave him with it.

_She wouldn't_. The thought calms him. It stops the world again, and he falls back against the pillows. His eyes close and he lets his arms drift out to either side of his body, spread wide. He stops fighting it. He rests.

He's just dreaming, that's all. It's a nightmare. It's the only thing that makes sense.

This used to happen a lot. Solid, vivid dreams and he'd wake inside one shell to another dream, just as vivid. Another shell and another. Again and again, and every time, he'd be convinced it was over. Convinced he was awake.

It happened a lot when he was a kid. Bright, insistent landscapes. Scenery and action that moved his clumsy body around. Not quite sleep walking, the doctor said when his mother grew alarmed enough to take him, but something like it.

It's been a while. He grew out of it, mostly. A few in college that he'd been able to spin as drunken wanderings. A handful over the years since then. He doesn't like to think about those. Finally waking alone and utterly disoriented. One really bad one where he wandered all the way up into the hall outside Alexis's room and scared her half to death, muttering about Meredith with his eyes wide open.

And another now. His mind working on things. A lot of things. _Alexis._ Maybe it's _all_ a dream. Not just this. The last few weeks and _that_ whole situation.

He sighs. He's dreaming. That it. He's _dreaming_ and it's _such_ a relief.

_Peep_.

The sound derails his train of thought. It's near. It comes with pressure at his hip. Forceful indentation of the skin there and the sound again.

_Peep._

Relief drains away. The last of it on a sharp pinch he knows is a beak. A nasty, little beak and another ugly purple mark.

It's real. Terrible and real.

He throws the sheet off. Rolls to the floor in one heavy, clumsy motion. The duck tumbles over and over. It flaps and rights itself. Waddles toward him venting its anger in a series of _poks_ and _peeps_.

Castle backs away, stumbling over something. A bag he vaguely remembers. Toys. Because the horrible little thing has _toys_ and special food and instructions.

He opens his mouth. Snaps it shut the next second. There's no point calling for her. She's not coming.

_If she's even here._

The thought makes his blood runs cold. She might not be. She was . . . _not_ happy. All night. And before that. . . .

He was being an ass. He's been an ass about the whole thing. She apologized. And she was just trying to help in the first place. He knows that. It's just . . .

_"Ow."_

A sharp tweak at his kneecap rudely interrupts his brooding. The evil little thing peeps up at him. Dives for his naked thigh again.

_Naked_. That's a problem. He needs clothes. He needs to be way less vulnerable to attack. This thing has a taste for his flesh already. This horrible little thing.

He whirls for the bathroom. Immediately whirls back. The duck _peeps_ judgmentally.

He can't just leave it there. But _not_ leaving it involves touching. Actually _touching_ the thing, and that's not happening. It peeps again. LIke it's amused. Like this is _amusing._

It creeps him out and pisses him off and the next thing he knows he's looming over its weird little body, pillow case in hand, but he can't. He can't just . . . bag it. At the very least, Kate might be home. She might just be home and ignoring him. Bagging the duck is a big no. But he is _not_ touching the damned thing.

He edges along the bed and spreads the pillowcase out flat. He can't bag it, but he can wrap it, right? That's allowed.

"Come on." He smooths his hand invitingly over the fabric.

The duck stares at him, unmoving.

"Come _on,_ " he snaps. " _On_ the bag. Not in it."

The duck _pok_ s and turns away. Shakes its butt obscenely and begins a slow waddle to the far side of the bed.

"Hey!" He slaps the mattress. The duck pays no attention whatsoever. It zigzags slowly, _slowly_ across the width of the bed.

Castle gauges the distance to the bathroom against the duck's pace. He can make it. He thinks he can make it there and back before the little menace can get anywhere.

He turns. Darts and snatches pajama pants from the back of the door and the first t-shirt on the top of the hamper. It turns out to be hers. Of course it does. He whips back and digs. Everything seems to be hers. _Everything_ and there's no _time._

He finally comes up with something. It smells less than great, but it's an emergency. He stumbles into the pants. He gets stuck in the shirt, because it's that kind of morning. Because there's a _duck_ in his bed and it is that kind of morning.

He punches his arm free of the sleeve and drags the collar down his face. He spins back toward the bedroom, takes one running step and crashes into the duck. An angry, peeping flurry of yellow in mid-flight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's not a little annoyed. He's _mad_ and she doesn't know why and everything is weird. The rabbits are unhappy and she's not exactly sure what to do with their houseguest."

  


* * *

"Kate!" He stumbles through the office, arms wrapped awkwardly around the pillow case wrapped tightly around the duck. Around the horrible, _peep_ ing little thing.

"You're up." She regards him cooly from the couch. Batman is pressed close to her thigh. Batman regards him less cooly. Batman is pretty pissed. "Good."

"Kate." He crosses the room in long, stiff strides, the unhappy bundle held as far away from his body as his arms will allow. It's not far enough. It's not nearly far enough. "We need . . . you have to . . . _Kate!"_

He's trying to get words out. Lots of them, as fast as he can, but she's on her feet. Batman lounges in the crook of her elbow now, giving him the evilest of her evil eyes. It's saying something. Nothing good.

"Not now," Kate says evenly. The two of them brush past him. She's _going_ somewhere. Kate is going somewhere. She's taking Batman with her and she doesn't have the slightest intention of relieving him of the duck. "Not now." She stops at the foot of the stairs, relenting, but not really. "We're going back to bed. Both of us."

" _Bed?"_ He's incredulous. He's not really awake yet, and he thinks that must be it. He thinks he misunderstood.

"Bed," she says. It's short. Clipped. Just on the pissed off side of neutral and there's no misunderstanding it. "Upstairs. Where it's dark. And _quiet_." Batman chatters for emphasis.

"Kate," he calls out again as she climbs. It's desperate this time. Pathetic. He doesn't care. She's halfway up the stairs. She's going. Leaving him alone with it.

"Later." She makes the landing and turns halfway back toward him. She scrubs her free hand through her hair, sweeping it back from her face. She's exhausted. He sees that now that she's not hiding. He sees that she's pale and barely dragging along. "Castle, we . . . _you're_ going to talk. You're going to tell me what the hell is going on. _Later._ "

"But I . . . what?" He stares down at the bundle clutched awkwardly between his palms. The increasingly loud, restless bundle. He looks back up at her, horrified. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

" _Him."_ She snaps this time. It's not neutral. It's frustrated. Angry. Confused. Hurt. But she shuts it down the next second. She's trying. He feels a flare of guilt followed hard on by annoyance. _He_ didn't do this. But she's exhausted and he's an ass and he _hates_ it. Him. The awful duck.

They stare at each other. It's a miserable impasse. She gives in and he hates that, too. He hates it.

"Call Alexis," she says wearily. "She's not back for another day, but she must have had a Plan B. Tell her . . ." She hesitates. She pulls in a frustrated breath. "Tell her I'm sorry."

"Kate." He steps toward her. He tries to, but there's a firm, furry thump at his ankles.

Ferrous, of course, rising up. He looks to the stairs and back at Castle. His nose twitches in the unhappiest of his smiles.

Castle stoops to lift him. Forgets for a second about his awful burden. Just for a second, but it's enough to cause a commotion. There's a confusion of flapping and _pok_ ing as the tight wrap of the pillow case comes undone.

The horrible little thing wriggles free. It spills out into his arms. Castle jerks back with yelp. A strangled, disgusted shout. It tumbles, feathery butt over evil beak, and lands on Ferrous. The big rabbit gives a joyful buck, and the floor is a mad swirl of brown and yellow, fur and feathers.

"Kate!" He calls out again. Stands by helplessly thinking he should save Ferrous even he's flashing a brand new smile. Even if the big, dumb oaf doesn't know that the duck is a horrible, evil little thing and he needs saving. "Kate. Help."

He calls out miserably, but the stairs are already empty.

She's gone.

He's alone.

* * *

The day passes in a blur. At a crawl. Some horrible combination of the two.

The duck chases him everywhere. Every single time he's on his feet—every step he takes—the horrible little thing is there, waddling at a clip and nipping at his ankles. They're covered with tiny red–purple marks and he can't even make it to the bedroom for socks. For armor.

He tries boots for a while. They're within easy reach in the front closet, but they slow him down and make no difference to the stupid duck. It just flaps up and latches on to the fabric of his pajama pants. Its body weight tugs the elastic down over his hips, no matter how tight he ties the drawstring, and it's not like the beak doesn't hurt wherever it lands. Plus they're loud. The boots are all loose and clompy and loud without socks and Kate was pretty pointed about the quiet thing.

Boots or no boots, Ferrous thinks it's the best game ever. He hops frantically in the duck's wake, his sides heaving with all the effort. He noses up Castle's pant legs to get at his ankles. He tickles with his whiskers and blinks up in confusion when Castle dances in place. When he curses and pulls back his foot sharply, caught in the act of definitely not kicking the duck.

Kicking is probably worse than bagging the awful thing. And, anyway, he supposes he wouldn't _really_ kick it, even if Ferrous weren't watching like some giant, fluffy Jiminy Cricket. He probably wouldn't kick it. _Probably._

He tries sitting. He figures the damned thing can't chase him if he's stationary, but that doesn't work, either. Of course it doesn't work. He moves from chair to couch to floor. He tries the stools in the kitchen and the big ottoman, but it doesn't matter. The duck has something against him sitting.

Wherever he is, it hovers. It waddles around him and tries to climb his knees and thighs. His shoulders when he flops to the ground in a fit of despair. Wherever he sits, it flaps and _peep_ s furiously.

Ferrous loves that, too. Ferrous love _every. single. thing._ about the duck, but he especially loves the _peep_ ing and flapping. He dances. He throws himself in the air and comes thundering down, turning in circles as he goes. He rattles the coffee table and the everything stashed on the shelves under the the kitchen counter. Magazines slide crazily, and the big stainless steel mixing bowl marches right off the bottom shelf and clangs around the kitchen floor until Castle dives to still it.

The damned duck hops right inside. It flutters and settles a minute, then marches discontentedly in the bottom, slapping the sides with its floppy orange feet. Ferrous tears in an excited circle around the bowl, then comes to a sudden stop. The two of them turn in perfect unison to peer expectantly up at Castle.

"What?" They blink. Also in perfect unison. It's disturbing.

The duck _peep_ s and _pok_ s. Ferrous backs him up with his happy rumble.

He remembers the saucepan. Reluctantly remembers the saucepan. He does _not_ love the idea of the duck in things he cooks in. Things he _eats_ from. He doesn't love that in a couple of different ways. Because the issue of edibility has crossed his mind more than once. And the fact that Ferrous is technically edible, too. The fact that _he's_ edible, as Perlmutter likes to remind him, and he _hates_ this duck.

He hates the dark places his mind is wandering because of it. He hates fighting with Kate and hardly talking to Alexis and his mother's interference. He hates thinking about the best way to prepare grandduckling, and the damned thing is _not_ his grandduckling.

"Not my grandduckling," he grumbles.

But he picks up the bowl, because the thing is quiet in there at least. It settles in the bottom as if satisfied it has his attention, finally. It puffs its misshapen little body and looks smug. Satisfied.

Castle carries it to the sink, because it likes water, right? That's why it liked the saucepan, and if it will buy him twenty minutes of unmolested peace, he'll turn every last item in his kitchen into a duckling pool. He can burn them all tomorrow when the thing goes home. He can start over.

It might come to that. He lets the water warm a little and fills the bowl in a thin trickle down the side. Ferrous scampers underfoot and the duck shoves hits head ecstatically in the water's path. It _peep_ s happily and shivers when Castle eases the faucet up to a thin stream. It tips its head back and opens its beak and does and ecstatic little shimmy. It's kind of cute in a disgusting, oily, evil-with-feathers sort of way.

He carries the bowl back to the living room, dodging Ferrous as he goes and trying desperately not to slosh. He spreads out a haphazard section of newspaper on the coffee table and sets the whole thing down.

The duck flaps angrily for two seconds. Castle is just about to lose it when Ferrous takes a flying leap. He hits the edge of the coffee table hard and scrabbles. His heavy back end droops and sways. Castle gets his hands under it and helps him dashes to the bowl and rears up. His ears flap and the duck catches one with a hard-sounding _pok_.

"Whoa. Hey!" Castle stoops, ready to liberate the rabbit, but Ferrous takes off. He romps around the edge of the bowl. The duck holds on tight and turns and turns and turns on the surface of the water, its wings rippling in delight.

Ferrous stops to catch his breath. He shakes his ear loose from the duck's beak and marches in place, looking pleased with himself. Castle sinks cautiously to the couch. He half expects butt meeting leather to result in another round of duck ass to the face, but neither nonhuman seems to be paying him the slightest bit of attention right now.

He watches in fascination as the ritual starts over again. Ferrous offers the other ear this time. Reverses direction and runs hard against the current. The duck swirls in the opposite direction. They start and stop and start and stop. It's hypnotic, like some kind of demented maypole.

It's blessed relief right up to the moment when the duck barfs.

It's abrupt. No warning at all. The duck's beak opens. Ferrous's ear flies free. He slides off on a tangent, a stream of something foul-smelling and _goopy_ following. The duck flaps on the water in distress, still turning in circles. The beak opens and closes and opens and closes and it's _everywhere._ It's oozing down Ferrous's ear and dropping in wet plops off the newspaper. It's clinging in rivulets to the side of the bowl.

Castle stares, frozen, in mute horror.

Ferrous turns himself around and scampers back to the bowl. He props one paw in another slimy patch on the bowl's rim and reaches out to still the duck with the other. It peeps gratefully, launching one last salvo and drenching Ferrous's other ear.

They turn together toward Castle. It's hard not to take it as an accusation. As a demand that he _do_ something about it.

He wonders how much trouble he'll be in if he burns down the loft.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's not a little annoyed. He's _mad_ and she doesn't know why and everything is weird. The rabbits are unhappy and she's not exactly sure what to do with their houseguest."

  


The third emergency vet hasn't heard of him. Her staff puts him through right away and she listens patiently to his detailed descriptions of the quantity, texture, and extreme grossness of the duck vomit.

She asks him to walk her through the whole situation, duck–rabbit maypole and all. She doesn't laugh. Not out loud, anyway, but there are few suspicious moments of total silence. He suspects judicious use of the mute button, but he's not exactly in a position to complain.

She asks a number of questions about the duck's history. He scours his memory. Blushes hard at every one and has to admit he doesn't know. He's been in denial about all things duckling for weeks, and he just doesn't _know._

"I can call my daughter? If it's important?"

He offers it sheepishly, and the vet laughs. "It sounds like motion sickness. I think we can keep you out of trouble."

"If only," he mutters.

She gives him a list of things to watch for and tips on getting rid of the smell. She tells him to wash the duck thoroughly so it doesn't start picking at its own feathers. Morbid preening, she calls it. He thanks her instead of telling her that he would quite literally die rather than think about what thoroughly washing the duck entails.

There's nothing for it, though. It's still there on the coffee table, floating unhappily. Ferrous sits nearby, worried enough to nibble at his own paws.

He thinks he'll deal with Ferrous first. He tells himself it makes sense. That the rabbit loves his bath anyway and it'll be quick. That he's definitely not stalling in case Kate wakes up sometime soon and has a burning desire to take charge of Operation Thorough Duck Washing.

But the dumb duck is so _miserable._ He's floating listlessly in the water. His beak opens and closes soundlessly and he's just . . . miserable. The water is filthy and smelly. He tries to paddle around the little islands of foul stuff, but he's not having much luck. They're pretty much everywhere.

He takes them both together in the end. He ferrets out an old apron he hates. He bundles Ferrous in a giant towel under one arm and swallows hard against his gag reflex as he pulls the bowl, duck and all, into his body.

He trails through the loft to the laundry room sink. He's not crazy about the longer trip, but he'd like to be able to shower or brush his teeth or use his own bathroom again, and . . . no. Just . . . no to the thought of duck vomit within fifteen feet of any of that—of the place where he hopes to be naked and soapy with Kate again, some distant day—just _no._

Ferrous fusses at first. This isn't the drill, and Ferrous loves the bath time drill. Him in one sink and Batman in the other. Water temperature just so, even though Kate makes fun of the kiddie thermometer Castle sticks to the basin. Bubbles when Kate isn't looking. Kate is firmly against anti-bubble and somehow doesn't see the framed photo on her desk of two rabbits with bubble beards as any threat to her position.

Ferrous gives him one baleful look. He thumps a few times in protest of the change in protocol. But in the end, he's too fascinated to keep it up. He stretches up the steep walls and sniffs at the lint trap, apparently in love with the smell of fabric softener. He hops from corner to corner returning periodically to reassure the duck with a soft pattering of paws or his latest smile.

The duck needs reassurance. It doesn't seem to find Castle reassuring at all, which might have something to do with the fact that he kind of . . . tipped it unceremoniously out into the bottom of the sink, then blasted away the foul water before lowering Ferrous in more carefully.

But seriously, the thing is just . . . and he just . . . well it's hard to hate it now. It's so pathetic. But he's not exactly excited about touching it, vomit or no vomit.

He sluices water over the two of them. Ferrous splashes and tries to play, but the duck just looks traumatized. It's getting to Ferrous. Penetrating the hard shell of his cheerfulness and tilting his smiles to the sad end of the spectrum.

Castle picks up the pace before morale dips any further. He scrubs Ferrous down briskly with the rabbit shampoo and gives him a thorough dousing. His mood takes an upward swing. He struts around shaking one paw at a time and shivering his fur from top to bottom, showing off for his new friend.

While the big rabbit is otherwise occupied, Castle squeezes a tiny amount of dish soap into his own palm and regards it dubiously. The vet insisted it was the best thing, but it feels rude somehow. And confusing. He doesn't need any more traumatic associations between the duck and kitchen items. At this point, he suspects the duck doesn't either.

He starts somewhere in the middle of its body. Somewhere well away from the beady little eyes and disturbing butt. It's not exactly safe—nothing about the damned duck is safe—but it's a start. The duck is curiously subdued through it all. It bends its knees—or whatever ducks do—and rests its body right on the bottom of the sink.

Its feathers are kind of cool up close. A combination of baby duck down here and there and sleeker, more grown-up expanses. And the colors are interesting. Not just yellow but cream and brown, too.

He rubs the soap in gently, adding a little water now and again to make it foam. He moves forward. _Head first,_ he thinks, as that's the worst of it. The little duck bows meekly. His eyes close and he pushes closer to Castle's palm. He lets out a sad, soft peep and it's . . . _oh, God._ It's very nearly cute.

And then he's talking to it. He's telling stories about Alexis and her first bath. The way her blue eyes opened wide and she squawked once the first time the water hit the top of her head. How he'd freaked out, thinking he'd hurt her. Scalded her or somehow blinded her with the world's mildest baby shampoo. How she smiled up at him, then. Giggled even though the baby books insisted she wouldn't giggle for months yet.

The duck relaxes. He waddles obediently when Castle tries to turn him and lifts one wing, then the other, the sudden picture of cooperation. He even _pok_ s a few times when Ferrous crowds up and shakes his ear, trying to get back into the swing of things.

He rinses them both once more for good measure and tries to decide what to do about towels. He strips off the disgusting apron and shoves it into the washer with the ruined towels. He grabs two fresh ones off a pile he meant to put away days ago, but the duck waddles on to Ferrous's and Ferrous scampers on to the the duck's. He wraps them both up in a double layer in the end.

He moves them to the laundry table and rubs them down. Ferrous tumbles and rolls, eager and happy and not in the least protective of his belly the way Batman is. Batman is protective of her everything, and really only Kate is allowed to dry her. The duck is more cautious. He watches Ferrous offer each of his paws in succession. He jumps a little when Castle first brings the cloth close to his side.

Castle murmurs to him. Another story, though this one fast forwards to the second grade when Alexis loved to watch him shave. For two weeks, she'd insisted on having him patting aftershave on to her cheeks, too, before she'd leave the house.

"And that ended in a nice rash and a really uncomfortable conversation with the pediatrician," he tells the duck. The duck peeps. He nods like he gets it. Castle doesn't want him to get it.

He doesn't want a grandduckling.

* * *

The two of them are apparently exhausted by their adventure. Castle sets them on a third towel in the corner of the couch and tries to figure out how to barricade them in while he deals with the rest of the mess.

Ferrous is snoring in seconds, though, and the duck is cuddled up to his side. He's watchful as Castle moves around the table in short bursts. Curious, but apparently content to stay put.

Castle doesn't go far, even so. He snatches up sodden newspaper does a slap-dash wipe up job with tissues because they're on hand. He shoves everything into a small wastebasket and jumps when he the duck flaps once and follows it up with a _pok._

He eyes the scene on the couch suspiciously, but the duck's eyes slip closed. Castle watches as the yellow ribs huff and settle. As they fall in sync with Ferrous's long, deep breaths.

He risks a trip to the kitchen sink for cleaning supplies. He dumps the small wastebasket into the sturdier, lidded trash and hurries back, spray and towels in hand.

All remains quiet on the nonhuman front as he scrubs and spritzes and satisfies himself that there's not much more he can do about the smell unless he really is willing to burn the place down. It's mostly gone anyway. Covered at least.

Castle's not quite sure what to do with himself when all's said and done. Ferrous is sleeping deeply. His nose twitches and his front paws patter on the cushion in his typical happy dreams. He's not likely to wake until it's time to eat and that's a while off yet.

He doesn't know about the duck. What his schedule usually is. What the special food is or when he eats. When and where he's supposed to sleep, because wherever it is—how ever it is—that obviously didn't happen last night. He doesn't know anything about the duck. He's a complicated mix of abashed and annoyed about it, and it all adds up to him not even knowing what he _can_ do with himself right now.

He settles into the opposite corner of the couch. He swings his feet up and keeps watch.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's not a little annoyed. He's _mad_ and she doesn't know why and everything is weird. The rabbits are unhappy and she's not exactly sure what to do with their houseguest."

  
  


* * *

She startles awake at the firm nip. It's pointed. It doesn't break the skin, but it stops her heart and stills her blood and screams in her head that she neeeds to move move move. All that at once. It's wrong, It's really wrong.

"Batman!" She blurts it out loudly as she sits bolt upright. Way too loudly and it hurts her heavy, aching head.

The little rabbit nips her wrist a second time. A countersign before she hops up into Kate's newly available lap.

Lap. Shit. Where is she? Why didn't she have a lap a second ago?

She must have been lying down. She must have been asleep.

The heavy fog dancing between her ears seems to confirm it. Asleep. Dead asleep, apparently. But Batman is running around, and that is not safe. That can't be right.

None of this is right. The pillow isn't hers, and her hips feel out of joint. Everything smells wrong. She runs her fingers over her face in the dark and feels the distinctive pattern of a stiff, fussy bedspread, a negative image on her cheek.

The guest room. She's in Castle's guest room. Her guest room, right? Her heart pounds suddenly. It feels like a dream. A terrible dream where it's three years ago. Four, almost, and everything else never happened. Where she's just visiting because she has nowhere else to go. Where she's not home.

But Batman . . . she must say it aloud. The little rabbit must hear her name. She gives an annoyed chatter and kneads at Kate's thigh.

Batman. The name is a relief. It's not three years ago. In the deepest dream, her mind could not have made up Batman. No one could have made up Batman.

"Guest room, though," she mutters.

Her fingers find Batman's chin in the darkness. She scratches just so and feels a thump of cursory gratitude at her thigh. It comes back to her in unwilling pieces. The long night. This new kind of fight with Castle that she is so done with. Falling on to the bed and telling herself she'd rest just a second before securing Batman.

Apparently that last part didn't happen. She leans to switch on the bedside lamp, almost afraid of the destruction she'll see. But there's nothing. A tunnel under the other pillow that's just about Batman sized and nothing more. Nothing in pieces or shredded or on fire. She wonders again if she's dreaming.

"Did you sleep? Without destroying the world the minute my eyes were closed?"

Batman slaps at Kate's hip. Denial or impatience or both.

Kate scoops her up with a sigh. There's no clock in here, and her watch is down in the bedroom or who knows where. Her phone. Everything is who knows where, and she doesn't know how long it's been. She feels like she could sleep for another hundred years, but her limbs only weigh half a ton each now. So . . . it's probably been a while?

She swings her feet to the floor and balances Batman on her hip. However long it's been, she doubts that The Batman Peace extended to the rest of the loft. To the rest of her life. To Castle and whatever is going on with him and the duck. There's no way she's that lucky.

But it's time to find out what the damage is.

The quiet lasts the length of the upstairs hallway. It lasts step after step. It should make her uneasy. It's ominous, isn't it? Even when it's just the four of them—her and Castle and the rabbits—the loft is never really quiet.

He must have ditched the duckling. He must have had it out with Alexis and fobbed Chuck off on whoever should have taken the damned thing in the first place. And he must be sulking somewhere now. Or gone. He might be gone.

It's really the only explanation for how quiet it is, but that doesn't feel right. She doesn't think he's gone, somehow. However mad he is, she can't see him just going. That's kind of . . . more her style. And even if he's that mad at her, he can't see her shutting Ferrous up alone in the hutch.

One foot follows the other, faster now, but still soundless on the stairs. Batman's ears perk up. Her nose twitches. Her head swings around and up. She fixes Kate with a glare. A question.

It smells funny. Like Windex and rabbit shampoo and other things. Something powdery and pointedly neutral with a bare whiff of something unpleasant underneath. It doesn't smell like hay and coffee and greens. That's what it should smell like. That's what home smells like, and Batman wants an explanation. So does Kate for that matter.

She hurries now. It's getting to her. The half-destroyed bridge comes into view. The image combines with the total silence, the odd smell, and the memory of just how strange things have been with Castle over the last twenty-four hours. Over the last few weeks, with everyone looking her way. Expecting her to do something about the situation with Alexis, even though she doesn't have the faintest clue what the situation with Alexis actually is.

She hurries, anxious to know the worst of it. Anxious to know just what kind of clean-up she's dealing with, literally and figuratively. Batman senses her agitation. She struggles under Kate's palm. She fumbles the little rabbit higher on her chest as she turns the corner of the couch and stops dead.

He's asleep. All three of them are asleep.

Castle takes up the length of the couch. His shoulders and neck are slouched at an awkward angle. Rounded and hunched like he started out sitting up. One arm is flung back over his head. It curls around the back of the couch and anchors him. The other is wedged somewhere out of sight, disappearing where he twists at the waist.

One of his knees is bent. The duckling is nestled there, a triangular corral between one straight thigh and the crook of his other leg. Ferrous is wedged into the irregular space higher up. His front paws are stretched out and drooping . HIs furry bulk oozes to fill the crevice between Castle's body and the back of the couch. At least two of them are snoring.

Kate stares. Wonders again if she's still asleep. If it's three years ago and her apartment just blew up. If she's imagined all this. That she lives here and has a rabbit named Batman. If Castle has finally gotten to her, and this is what it's like to go crazy.

Batman spies Ferrous, then. She spies Castle and the duck and demands an explanation for why she is is not running around. Where Ferrous has been. Why everyone is not entertaining her and doing her bidding. Why it smells funny. Kate shushes her with a firm tap to the head.

Castle's phone is on the end table, just above the back of his hand. She steals silently to his side and slides it into her free hand. She pulls up the camera and makes her way to the other end of the couch. She steps back and captures a long, long angle. To frame every ridiculous detail of the scene. She wrangles Batman against her shoulder and raises a finger to the screen.

"If you take that picture, I'm leaving you, Beckett."

The shutter clicks.

* * *

She tries not to laugh. He shows her his battle scars. He hikes his pajama pants up to his knees and there really are dozens of them.

"We are not calling them duck hickeys," he grumbles.

But they're totally calling them duck hickeys, and she's trying not to laugh. Much.

He tells the climax of the story in merciless detail. Spinning ribbons of slimy vomit. Oozing piles of it. The stench. She has to laugh, then. It's that or give into the queasiness lurking at the edge of things, so she laughs and he pouts and the animals wreak limited havoc in makeshift pen of pillows and furniture.

The two of them are cross-legged on the floor. Their knees brush now and again, but they're keeping their distance, even though he's telling the story. He is, and she's following his lead for now. It's not quite comfortable for all he's playing up the humor. For all she's trying not to laugh.

They fall quiet, watching as Batman and the duckling vie for Ferrous's time and graceless attention. The little rabbit missed him, and as usual, she vents her feelings in violence. She runs headlong into Ferrous's flank, then darts away, chattering her demands that he follow. She snaps her teeth at the duck and swats at his butt with fierce paws when he gets too close to Ferrous. Her Ferrous.

Chuck counters by flapping his way on to Ferrous's back. He poks once at Batman's ears. She slams her head up into the underside of his beak, closing it with a hard snap. The duck gets the message and retreats a little. But before too long, the dance starts all over with a sadder, wiser duckling. And through it all, Ferrous's head swings back and forth in delighted confusion. Just like every day, it's Ferrous's best day ever.

Castle knocks Kate's knee with his fingers. He grins and points to Batman stealing a kiss from Ferrous, then looking around to make sure no one's noticed. Glaring at Castle when she realizes he has.

Kate grins back. It's not quite comfortable, but it's easier than it has been. Not just since she agreed to duck-sitting, but even before that. It's easier, and she wants to let it all go for now. She wants to enjoy the moment, but she thinks of something he should know. It slips out before she can think any harder about it. Before she can over-think.

"Charles," she says. "Chuck's real name."

He looks up at her in surprise, his hand stilled in the act of reaching out to reconnect the borders of the pillow corral. There's an instant of confusion, then he gets it. His mouth twists and straightens again.

"Charles," he repeats. "Dickens?"

She shakes her head and drops her eyes. She can't help smiling. She thinks it's funny, but he probably won't. He won't want to. "Bovary."

He hears it. The smile in her voice. He knows it's funny. It's clever. He's proud and doesn't want to be. He can't help it though. He fights it. His mouth twists again and he loses the fight. A smile breaks out.

"Charles Bovary." He reaches out and taps the duckling's beak. Chuck blinks at him with a tentative pok. "Literature's most famous quack."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's not a little annoyed. He's _mad_ and she doesn't know why and everything is weird. The rabbits are unhappy and she's not exactly sure what to do with their houseguest."

  
  


It's a long evening. Tiring. The animals are all amped up again after they eat. All three of them, and it takes the full attention of two humans to keep the destruction in check.

They try stowing the rabbits in the hutch. It's well past time for that, but they both seem to know that summer vacation rules are in effect. They chirp and chatter and push bedding out on to the floor.

Kate is the first to relent. Castle is smug about it. He hauls Ferrous out from under the arm chair when the big rabbit starts a game of hide and seek. He plucks Batman off the bridge and mutters about anarchy and how much bridge repairs are going to cost the tax payers.

But he's cheerful again. Grumpily cheerful and narrating. He even calls the duck by name every once in a while. He says him and calls him doctor and hardly uses terms like feathery evil or that awful thing at all.

He's back to himself, and then he isn't. All in the space of the phone ringing. It's Alexis. Kate braces. Waits for it all to come crashing down again.

His face goes bleak and unhappy. He answers with just his daughter's name, clipped and serious. None of the hundred endearments he has for her.

Kate's at a loss. She's never been around for this. One of these conversations between them. Not really, and she's not sure she should be. She's not sure if it's that she's not allowed, or if he thinks she shouldn't have to deal with it. If it's about boundaries or compartments. She should probably know. She should probably be sure, one way or the other.

"She's here." Kate hears him say. His eyes flick to hers. She raises up on her knees. She leans in for the phone, but he gives a minute shake of his head. "No. Her phone must be dead. But you and I should talk anyway."

He makes an awkward one-handed reach for a magazine rack and slides it against the pillow blockade in place of his knees. He's struggling to his feet and turning away from her. He's taking the conversation to the office, apparently.

She's relieved. She's annoyed. She's not exactly sure what she is, but he stops then. He turns back.

"Alexis, hold on a second." He starts to cover the speaker then raises the phone to his ear again. "No, we'll talk now," he says firmly. He listens a second. "Thank you."

He covers the speaker. "I . . . can you handle them for a few minutes? I'd rather . . . I'd like some of this settled." He shrugs, gesturing to the phone.

Kate nods. She starts to say something, then waves it away, but he notices.

"What?"

"Later," she says. She gives him a wan smile. "It'll keep."

"Later." He nods. He leans in to kiss her cheek. Thinks better of it and pulls her to him entirely. "Thanks," he says softly. "Won't be long."

"Better not." She shoves him away and drops to her knees. She leans over the improvised pen where Batman and Chuck are going after each other a little more seriously than they should be and Ferrous lumbers between them, oblivious. "Looks like trouble at the OK corral."

* * *

It's not long. Maybe ten minutes or so, but the animals seem to run the wickedness out of each other in the interim. The mad game of chase slows to some half-hearted boxing. Boxing on Batman's part, and some kind of awkward head-butting, wing-buffeting attempts on Chuck's. Ferrous just dances.

By the time she hears Castle snap the light off in the office, Batman is telling Chuck in no uncertain terms that the vast expanse of Ferrous's left flank is hers and hers alone. Chuck flaps and _pok_ s in protest. Ferrous mostly blinks and smiles at the two of them until Chuck waddles around the big rabbit's far side and starts to settle in.

"Should we put them to bed?" Castle asks.

"In a little bit." She tips her head back to look at him, trying to gauge his mood. "They're so peaceful. Finally. Don't want to mess with that until we have to."

"Peaceful." He snorts. "That's what I thought right before the vomit comet started."

He settles in behind her. Rests his chin on her shoulder.

It fits there like it hasn't in a while. _He_ fits. They do. She can feel the tension that's left him in just the brief space of a conversation. Even one that wasn't exactly comfortable from what she could hear.

That wasn't much. Just the rise and fall of curt phrases making Batman sit up with interest and Ferrous hide his nose. But that's how he is. With his mother. His daughter. As a family, they're prone to explosions. Blow-ups and dramatic reconciliations. They don't let things fester and stew. Usually, anyway, and she's glad for his sake he's back to that.

She's glad, even though there's still . . . something. This one-eighty between the two of them. Curling up to her back now when he's been keeping his distance. When the brief kiss earlier was the most contact they'd had since the duckling showed up. When he pretended to be asleep last night when she finally came to bed.

"Things go ok?" she asks after a little while.

She doesn't exactly want to. This is peaceful, too. Them fitting together and all three animals asleep. She's not eager to mess with it. But she doesn't want another night like the last. Another day like today or a stretch of weeks with business definitely not as usual with him and Alexis and something she's supposed to have done about it. So she asks.

"Not entirely," he admits. "It's not . . . it wasn't going to be fixed in one phone conversation. We'll talk when I take Chuck back to the hovel tomorrow."

"Castle, it's _not_ a hovel."

"The landlord allows _ducks!"_ Chuck perks up at that. She feels Castle stick out his tongue. "The other place didn't allow ducks."

He gives an exaggerated _oof_ as she elbows him in the ribs. "Exactly. And she couldn't afford the other place . . ."

"She could've afforded it."

"No, _you_ could've afforded it."

She's trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. She's _trying._ But she's been party to a dozen versions of this conversation. She's listened. She's tried staying out of it. She's tried talking to both of them. She's made herself scarce and jumped in with both feet. She's talked to Martha and talked Martha down from drastic measures. And she just might scream if this is still about the damned apartment after all these weeks.

She plants one fist on the floor. She disentangles herself from him. Closes her eyes for a brief moment and already misses they way they fit together for the first time in a while. She starts to turn to him, but he stops her.

"I know, ok? I _know."_ He holds her by the shoulders and presses his lips to her neck. "I'm proud of her. I'm . . . . glad that she wants to make her own way." He pushes out a breath and sounds anything but glad. But he sounds like he's trying to be. "It's not about the hovel . . ."

"It's not a hovel, Castle," she says again, but she twists to drop an awkward kiss on his forehead.

"Fine," he says with a testy sigh. "It's not a hovel, despite the presence of barnyard animals."

She laughs. She knocks her head against his and wonders where to go from here. Where to take this, because she thinks it's true. She thinks he's grudgingly proud that Alexis took a stand on paying for her own place, but she doesn't know what the rest of this is, then. She doesn't know where it leaves them.

"It's not the apartment," he says as though he can hear her thoughts.

He can sometimes. Usually they both can. When they're not getting in their own way.

"I mean. It _is_ the apartment. Because I'm always . . . I'm just that guy. I don't _want_ to be. I know I shouldn't be. But I am." He trails off. "But it's not _just_ me . . ."

"It's not. It wasn't just you," she says suddenly. It's another thing he should know. That she should have told him. Things she hasn't told him and she doesn't really know why. "I went over the place with her. Security. Talked to the landlord about proper locks and things he's required to fix."

"You did?"

She can hear him blinking. Processing. She doesn't know what it means. If he's grateful or annoyed. If she overstepped or he wonders why the hell she didn't just tell him and save him however many sleepless nights. If she's violating Alexis's confidence or keeping things from him that he should know.

"It was . . ." She wrestles with the words. "You had some legitimate concerns, Castle."

"So, I'm _not_ that guy?"

"Oh, you're that guy," she says, but she pulls his arm tighter around her. She pulls his palm to her lips and presses a smiling kiss there. "But that's not always the whole story. And something like this . . . Alexis made an impulsive decision. Not a bad one. But not a perfect one. And it's not easy to have your dad point that out to you."

"It's easier from you," he says slowly, his voice a mystery. "Because I'm that guy."

"It's easier because I'm a cop." She thinks about it. "And because I don't need her to like me as much."

"She likes you." It's immediate. A little defensive.

"I know." She believes it. Even if it's a little unnerving that he seems to need to say it out loud. She hears herself, and she believes it. "Alexis and I . . . we're good mostly, but I don't always know how much she wants me involved."

She hesitates. She could leave this here. This is something that's needed saying and it's a lot. She could leave it here, but they still haven't made it to what this is really about. "I don't always know how much _you_ want me involved."

 _"Me?"_ The word practically falls out of his mouth. Surprised doesn't really cut it. "Of course . . . Kate, of _course_ I want you involved."

"Ok." She ducks her head. Feels her cheeks burning and tries to hide behind her hair, at first, but she's had enough of that. She thinks they've both had enough of that. She cranes back to look at him. Reaches up to tilt his face toward hers. "Ok, Castle. But . . . that's not 'of course' to me. Maybe I . . . I don't know if it's me or you or both of us. But there's no 'of course' about that."

"Ok," he says. He kisses her. "I should have . . . I get that . . . ok. And thank you. Thank you for doing that."

"Of course."

He laughs against her neck. Whispers _thank you_ again, and she wonders if that's all. If they're through this now. But she doesn't think so. She feels his hands on her. How restless they are, and she doesn't think so.

"I'm always going to be overprotective. I'm always going to want . . . to try to give too much. You're good for me with that. You're good for me."

He hugs her tight. _Tight_ all of a sudden and she wonders about that, too. He goes on, though. Rambling a bit, but it's how he works through things. She goes along with him. It's such a relief after the silence. She settles herself against him. She listens. Laughs and pokes him and interjects until he gets around to it. Realizes or confesses or whatever this is.

She follows, but she's not expecting the last stop.

"I don't want a grandduckling."

It's oddly mournful. A definite stop and not his usual pouting. He's not playing up the drama like he does when the feeling is honest enough, but he knows he's being a little ridiculous. This is different. It's . . . pained and nervous. It's contagious. Her pulse sets off at a sudden gallop, though she doesn't know exactly why.

"Feeling old, Castle?" It just bubbles out. It's stupid. Nerves. Something. She wants to take it back. Badly, because he does sometimes. It bothers him in a way she thinks is silly, but she's stumbled into it often enough to know it's real for him. That she shouldn't be such an ass about it. "Castle, I'm . . ."

She turns toward him. She tries again, because she wants to apologize. She really wants him to know. She twists halfway around and he catches her. He pulls her all the way around. Pulls her into his lap and kisses her fiercely. Both his hands sink into her hair. He holds her to him and he's kissing her for all he's worth.

And then it's over. As suddenly as it began, he pulls back and it's over. Her eyes flick open and closed. It takes a while for her vision to clear. She blinks hard when it does. He's staring at her. Intense and searching and her heart pounds.

"I don't want a grandduckling," he says again, and it's ridiculous. It's _absurd_ how serious he is. The way she's burning all over from it.

But the way he's looking at her . . . the way he kisses her again. Slow this time, but every bit as intense. As meaning. Words trickle out between nips and slow flicks of his tongue against hers. "I'm not done with the first part yet."

"Castle!" It registers, finally. Somewhere in the molten contents of her brain the words register. She pops upright in his lap. "Grandduckling. First part?"

He laughs. Moans as he leans in for one last kiss, then peers up at her, as nervous as she is all of a sudden.

"We're bad at things," he blurts. He frowns. Shakes his head and flinches. Hugs her tight again, like he's just realized that doesn't sound good. "We're good at lots of things. And bad at some, Kate. And I'm . . . I'm not done with the first part. And we've never talked about that."

"Ducklings?" It comes out desperate. Confused. Pleading.

She's not trying to be funny, but he makes a face. There's a long way to go before things are right with him and Chuck. And that's funny. It's funny to both of them and they wind up exhausted and leaning into each other. Sobering and then trailing back off into giggles.

He recovers first. Or tries to. He's still nervous. His fingers shake as he trails them down her sides. As he draws them inward over her hips and back out again, like he's picturing it. Like he's picturing her and them. All of them.

"I want to have kids with you." He looks up at her, and he's _so_ nervous. He looks young and old and tired and hopeful and stubborn, and she wishes she had a lifeline to throw him. "I'm not . . . it's obviously not something I'm demanding. And it's not like it's a deal breaker. I have Alexis. I've had my shot, but I . . ."

"You what?" Her heart is pounding and her head is spinning. This is so not where she expected this day to end up. She's dumb with it. Stalling for time and coaxing the words out of him because he's better at that. He's so much better at that than she is.

"I really wish you'd say something here," he says. "Other than ducklings. But I think you'd be amazing. And I've never gotten to do it with anyone. And I didn't think I wanted to. Because I'm that guy, even though I don't want to be. And that's part . . . it's part Meredith, and part just who I am. Because of _my_ mother. My father. Lack of father . . . But you're not just anyone, Kate. And I think we'd be amazing at this together, even if we're bad at some things. I hate that we're bad at talking . . . "

"Me too." She jumps in. She doesn't want to stall anymore. She doesn't want to wait or listen while he works it out. She jumps in.

He goes still. His fingers tighten at her hips. "'Me too,' that you hate that? Or _me too,_ me too?"

"Me too. I'm not done with the first part," she says. She babbles. She's the one rambling now. She tries not to laugh as he his eyes narrow and he tries to follow. "But I've never done the first part. And 'me too' I hate that. We should be better at those things. But the other thing. Me too."

It's loud. She's loud and he is. Words and kisses and gasps when she tightens her legs around his waist and his fingers burrow under her shirt and rasp over her belly.

It wakes Batman. She chatters. She kicks Ferrous. She spins and leaps for the edge of the pillow corral. Ferrous follows, plowing through the barrier entirely and trampling it underfoot. Chuck peeps and flaps and waddles around them as Batman scales Kate's back. As she climbs Kate's shoulder to glare at Castle and Ferrous nudges his way between them to pat everyone softly. To make peace.

It's a _peep_ ing, _pok_ ing, chattering, rumbling cacophony, but Kate whispers the words again and she knows he hears. She kisses him.

"Me too."


End file.
